I live with my mum and dad because I am a big fat weird loser. There was a plan for another life once upon a time, but it all went tits up in a slow conflagration fuelled by the cursed career from hell and worsening OCD. It all went pop in the end. The aftermath has seen me scrambling around in the burnt embers, searching for remains, trying to piece together what happened, wondering where the hell I go from here.
Now we’ve got that out of the way you judgemental bastards(no not you, you’re lovely), let me tell you about my father and the death of hope.
My father is a hoarder, and a bit of an arsehole if I’m completely honest. No wait, if I was completely honest I’d say he was a lot of a [word I REFUSE to sully my blog with that begins with C and rhymes with James Blunt]. No not Claims silly. Never mind. You can’t make me say it you cunt … damn.
Anyway he’s filled his house with rubbish over the years and refuses to get things fixed when they break which means the whole thing is slowly decomposing into the ground.
One day recently while trying to write in the garden, in among the perma-whirring of mechanised garden fetishists, the doppler drone of cars and planes, and the urgent sugar-fuelled shrieking of children, I heard an old familiar buzzing noise. No not the clockwork cucumber silly!
I’ve always had a morbid fear of them since 2 tried to mug me on the way home from the chip shop in Manchester in 1993. No wait that’s muggers. I mean I’ve always had a morbid fear of them since I was stung by one in a beer garden on holiday when I was about 4. They’re belligerent little bastards whose default setting of buzzing around threateningly in people’s faces means there can be no peaceful cohabitation. God knows I’ve tried. No, it’s us or them I’m afraid. Besides, they don’t make honey and contribute NOTHING to the greater good. Shit that also applies to me. Damn my eyes. Well at least I do this sodding blog though eh? Show me one wasp with a blog. Exactly. I rest my case. I’ve never even seen one on Twitter. Oh no they’d rather keep to themselves and not participate in our customs. They think they’re better than us and that’s a joke because they’re worse! HA- In your stupid pointy faces wasps! Your impotent stings pale against my rapier wit!
Anyway I traced the buzzing to a hole in dad’s old shed. The shed started falling apart about 10 years ago so dad leapt into action and proceeded to do absolutely nothing about it. Now, it’s pretty much leaning up, covered in moss, felt hanging off the roof, peppered with holes. The door’s covered over by a bunch of old broken fence panels he can’t bring himself to part with and now a jungle of mystery plants has grown up around those and the whole thing has meshed into an unnavigable ensemble.
So it’s a no-go zone is what I’m trying to say here, but even if it were a go zone, it is piled up to the roof inside with a selection of old proper shed stuff, and then several layers of weird non-shed hoarder shit.
We don’t go in the shed is the upshot of all that.
As I stood and watched a flying Ho Chi Minh trail run back and forth, in and out of the hole in the corner of the shed, I knew it could mean only one thing. Wasps were thieving our old gardening equipment and selling it on Ebay! Then I realised it could also mean they were building a wasp’s nest. The latter possibility suddenly seemed more credible. Let’s face it, if they can’t be arsed with blogging, then I doubt they’d have the tenacity to wade through the swamp of red tape required to sell on Ebay. Which is just as well because they would make just the worst sellers. Rude and aloof in messages, operating every scam in the book, empty boxes, misleading descriptions, tins of wasps instead of that DVD player you ordered. It’s the Trojan horse all over again.
Sorry the story’s getting away from me here.
So these wasps are working at a furious pace constructing a death star, I mean nest. And I have to launch an attack from the rebel base on Yavin and drop a torpedo down the ventillation shaft, I mean I have to scupper their nest building ambitions.
Oh god if only I could be miniaturised and go attack it in an x-wing. Me and a bunch of miniaturised friends. Crap, I haven’t got any friends. OK me and a bunch fo bees then …
“This is Red Leader to Yellow & Black Stripes 3 – I’m lining myself up for the bomb run – cover my 6 over…”
“zzzz zzzzz zz zzzzzz zzz z zzzzzzzzzz”
Absolutely fucking useless.
So ANYWAY … I’m sorry, my smooth erudite style seems to have gone out of the window tonight, I don’t know what it is. Stay with me people – I can turn this around – and a 1 and a 2 and a 1,2, 3, 4…
Everything’s coming up blogses,
a blog for you and for meeeeee,
so settle down,
and put down that frown,
read me and sip your cup of teeaaaaa.
YEAAAAH! … JAZZ HANDS!
So I now have this impossible problem to solve – a shed that is bizarrely more impregnable than Fort Knox, and Satan’s wasp coven building a hideout for their vile queen – a base from which they can terrorise us day and night. Wasps in the bedroom, wasps in the kitchen, wasps in the shower, wasps on the toilet going where wasps don’t belong; wasps in your tea, wasp sandwiches, lawyer wasps hiding in your pants waiting for provocation so they can sting you on the nuts with plausible deniability. I KNOW HOW THESE FUCKERS OPERATE. You’ve got to get inside the wasp mindset to outwit them see. It aint pretty. But I’ve been there. You don’t know – you haven’t been there man. It can take a man over, drive him to the point of insanity, the constant buzzing, the mindless obedience, the hive mentality; much like being a recruitment consultant but obviously demanding a much higher IQ and some basic values.
He shoots, he scores!
And the crowd roars.
So I mull this conundrum over a while.
I decide it’s a fool’s endeavour trying to block up all the holes in the shed. Not gonna happen. So I go straight to Defcon 1 and launch an all out thermonuclear wasp spray attack, emptying an old can of Raid into the hole, making sure I cover all the angles. Then spraying in copious amounts of a new can of Raid after it. By the end of the attack. the shed is emanating this eerie chemical cloud. I back away and survey the carnage. Nothing could survive that. In a cynical display of wanton disrespect, the wasps taunt me by pretending nothing happened and dancing in and out of the hole like normal but with an extra spring in their step. They’re fucking laughing at me! I swear I can hear faint high-pitched hysterical laughter.
What we seem to be dealing with here is failure to communicate.
I stride inside with renewed purpose, through the kitchen into the garage locking the door behind me. I reach under an ornamental Elvis lamp and press a secret button. The floor starts to give way in front of me, forming a flight of descending stairs. They take me down into a secret underground chamber where a dusty golf cart is waiting for me at the start of an endless tunnel. I get in and drive down, down, down, to sector C 17. I stop outside a blimp-sized hangar and get out as the hangar doors clunk into action and trundle open slowly. I walk into the middle of the hangar where, atop a chrome podium, sits a military grade flame thrower(unlike those cooking flamethrowers you can get down at Woolworth’s)(YES I KNOW WOOLWORTH’S DOESN’T EXIST ANY MORE THANK YOU VERY MUCH)(I haven’t left the house since 1993 – my references are OLD OK – DEAL WITH IT!)
I feel like this is going well, how bout you?
OK so I’ll level with you – I made the whole flame thrower scenario up. But how cool would that be? Imagine what else would be down there – a target range, my own personal airship, a recovered UFO, a cyborg spider suit I wear that allows me to run really fast up the walls and on the ceiling; prison cells to put people who fuck me over in so I can go down and torture them when I’m bored. Ooh shit that got dark there suddenly didn’t it. I’m sorry about that. Complete disclosure – I have some anger issues that I’m currently not working through.
OK so no flame thrower. At the mercy of my modest means, I revert to the 8-year-old me and pour some syrup into an old jam jar, tie some string around the rim, and hang it from an exposed beam over the hole they’re using as an entrance. Now I don’t know the science behind this, if indeed there is any – I doubt it somehow. But I distinctly remember going through a sadistic insect phase as a kid, pulling legs and wings off things, burning things with a magnifying glass, pouring boiling water over ants’ nests, playing tennis with bees(true story – and yeeeees I know they’re endangered now and yeeees, I do feel bad about it – who are you anyway Jiminy FUCKING Cricket? Get off my back and let me tell my story man – OK? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck).
Anyway – for your information I no longer feel like this is going well – so I remember that one hot summer during that phase, I put a jar of syrup out in the back garden, and it quickly filled up with wasps. Now I’ve grown out of my insect torture phase and I really do try not to kill stuff now. I catch spiders in an old ear bud tub and free them out of the window. I cup moths in my hand and chuck them out – they don’t like it though and always kick off trying to get back in again. If moths like light so much why don’t they just sleep at night and go out and fill their boots in the daytime? Morons!
So I don’t feel good about this regression to childhood cruelty, but it really is either them or us. Mum likes to go sit in the garden when it’s nice and the hammock she sits in is right by the shed. I also like to sit out there sometimes and write. God KNOWS I already have enough distractions with OCD and noise and don’t need buzzy stingy things on top of that or I’ll get nothing done.
So it was with no pleasure but with absolute necessity that I hung that syrup up, and supplemented it with an unfurled roll of fly paper just to make sure. Knowing how these things tend to go, I imagine it will be completely ineffective anyway – the solution’s never that easy. And when it fails, they’ll probably get wise to it and call in reinforcements. There may even me reprisals – next time I leave the house there will probably be a chicken kebab with a “Yum yum – eat me!” sign pinned to it, lying seductively in a camouflaged net; or a bunch of Playboy magazines resting on a fake polystyrene floor above a spiked pit.
So I need to keep my wits about me. I’m a man of peace. I didn’t ask for this war and frankly I’d rather be fishing(I’ve never fished, I don’t know how to) but those tyrants brought this war to my doorstep and by god I’m going to finish it.
Because pacifism is the gateway drug to cowardice.
Because sometimes liberty needs defending.
Because if I don’t stop them, maybe no-one will.
Because I’m Batman.